[Illustration: _From du Maurier's painting._]
In those days we called all that caricaturing, and caricature he certainly did; mainly me and himself. From the first he imagined he saw a marked contrast between us. His nose was supposed to be turned up, and mine down, whereas really neither his nor mine much deviated from the ordinary run of noses; my lower lip certainly does project, but his does not particularly recede, and so on. But the imaginary contrast inspired him in the earliest days of our acquaintance, and started him on the warpath of pen-and-inking. He drew us in all conceivable and in some inconceivable situations. "Moscheles and I," he says on one page, "had we not been artists, or had we been artistically beautiful; then again, if we were of the fair sex, or soldiers, or, by way of showing our versatility, if we were horses." In that page he seems to have focussed the essence of our characteristics, whilst appearing only to delineate our human and equine possibilities. Poor F., one of our German friends, fares badly, a donkey's head portraying him "s'il était cheval."
[Illustration: MOSCHELES ET MOI SI NOUS AVIONS ÉTÉ DU BEAU SEXE.]
[Illustration: SI NOUS AVIONS ÉTÉ BEAUX.]
In consequence of the growing trouble with his eyes, du Maurier left Antwerp for Malines, to place himself under the care of an eminent oculist who resided within easy reach of that city. That blessed blister--"ce sacré vésicatoire," as he calls it, is one of the doctor's remedies.
[Illustration: MOSCHELES ET MOI SI NOUS N'AVIONS PAS ÉTÉ ARTISTES.]
[Illustration: SI NOUS AVIONS ÉTÉ CHEVAUX.]
The sketch shows how it is being applied by a devoted Sister of Mercy.
[Illustration: SI NOUS AVIONS ÉTÉ MILITAIRES.]
In those days railway travelling was not as rapid as it is now, but one could get from Antwerp to Malines in about an hour, a circumstance which I frequently turned to account. Du Maurier's mother had come to live with him, his sister joining them for a short time, and the home in quiet old Malines soon became a sort of haven of rest. I spent many a happy day and night there, on which occasions I am bound to say that the piano, requisitioned by me for some special purposes of musical caricature, detracted somewhat from the restfulness of the haven. However that may have been, such intrusion was never resented; my Swedish prima donna, or my qualifications as a basso profondo, or a brass-bandsman, were always treated with the greatest indulgence by the ladies, and my high soprano flourished and positively reached unknown altitudes under the beneficent sunshine of their applause. (For all that I never attempted Chopin's "Impromptu.")